


Waiting for the Sky to Fall

by Vagrant_Blvrd



Series: Crinkle Dot [3]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe- GTA V, Fake AH Crew, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 20:06:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13771554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagrant_Blvrd/pseuds/Vagrant_Blvrd
Summary: Finding someone who will patch you up when you run into a bullet or two, or someone gets lucky with a knife is easy enough in Los Santos. Finding someone who'll do that and not ask where you came by those kinds of injuries is a little harder. Finding someone who will do both and not call the cops on you the first chance they get is a damn miracle.





	Waiting for the Sky to Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Ryan's POV to the events in [Day by Day](https://vagrantblvrd.tumblr.com/post/170932370431/day-by-day-11).

Finding someone who will patch you up when you run into a bullet or two, or someone gets lucky with a knife is easy enough in Los Santos. Finding someone who'll do that and not ask where you came by those kinds of injuries is a little harder. Finding someone who will do both and not call the cops on you the first chance they get is a damn miracle.

“Alfredo, I could use a little help,” Ryan says, staring down at his leg. Bleeding through the shirt he found in the backseat of Gavin's dumb little Blista and honestly a bit worrying. “I'm kind of fucked here.”

Shot and bleeding and sitting in Gavin's stupid car instead of his Zentorno, which. Yes, part of the plan that had allowed the others to get away safely but he just really, really hates this car. Small and stupid and _slow_.

And maybe, maybe, there's a bit of worry sneaking in there too, making him a little cranky, which. Won't exactly win him points with Alfredo or Geoff if he hears about this

There's silence on the other end of the line. Alfredo giving him the cold shoulder treatment for having the gall to go and his his stupid self shot up, like there was any other choice in the matter. Too many cops and bad odds and Alfredo knows that as well as he does.

“'Fredo, buddy.”

 _”Fine, all right,”_ Alfredo says after a moment, and gives Ryan an address that he copies down on the back of a fast food receipt because Gavin is an animal and _this poor car_.

“Trustworthy?” Ryan asks, squinting at his handwriting, ink smeared with blood and that's probably going to cause problems, isn't it.

_”My guy says he is.”_

There's a shrug in Alfredo's voice that says the odds are fifty-fifty on that one. No way to know until the cops come to cart Ryan away if it's a bad gamble, but hey. Not like Ryan can afford to be choosy at the rate he's losing blood, right?

Ryan rolls his eyes because that's the trouble with Alfredo sometimes. Independent guy in a city like this who claims he has no interest in joining a crew. Someone like him who has info on everyone in the city and the kind of smarts to leverage that to his benefit.

Cocky bastard, sassy as hell and entirely too amused at the way Geoff's so damn insistent on winning him over to their side. 

_”Kid's new to Los Santos and doesn't have ties to anyone who'd be interested in bagging a Fake.”_

That's good to know. Means whoever this guy is, no one's going to mind if something happens to him if it turns out he's not smart enough to keep his mouth shut. No need to worry about stirring up trouble for the others with this if Alfredo's guy is wrong, and that's real nice to know ahead of time. Frees Ryan up to do whatever he needs to if things go south on him. (Well, _further_ south.)

========

The address Alfredo gave him brings Ryan to an apartment building in a decent-ish part of the city. Quiet area just off a major street and a little mom and pop grocery store around the corner.

No one takes notice when Ryan pulls into the parking lot. No one sees when he makes his way into the apartment building's main entrance and calls the elevator down, or when he gets off on the third floor. He's pretty sure no one's around to see the guy in the skull mask limp down the hallway to the apartment at the end of the hall. Brass number plate on the door that matches the address Alfredo gave him and a sad little lock that breaks his heart a little, it's so easy to pick. 

Someone's slipped a magazine under the guy's door with a little sticker on it telling whoever's reading it to enroll for a subscription not or they'll miss out on life-changing articles and recipes. Ryan rolls it up and tucks it away in a back pocket for the moment, never know how long this will take and it might make for an entertaining, only - 

“Shit,” Ryan says, because this guy isn't home.

Hopefully, otherwise he doesn't give the poor bastard good odds of making it far in Los Santos if he sleeps through someone breaking into his home.

Then again - 

Ryan groans, that bit of paranoia that's kept him alive this long pushing him into doing a quick sweep of the apartment. 

Notices that the guy hasn't invested anything past the basics when it comes to furnishing the apartment or decorating it. None of the little things people pick up along the way to clutter their lives up, knickknacks or bits and bobs, not even framed photographs.

And maybe it has something to do with him being new in town, no time to settle in and accumulate the way most people do.

“Well this is great,” Ryan says, leg killing him and hey, might as well take a moment to rest before before he calls Alfredo up to ask if he knows someone else who could fix him up that's actually there to do it.

Ryan's leg is taking every opportunity to remind him he went and got shot earlier, but he still manages to get reasonably comfortable on the couch. Doesn't really see the point to the mask that moment, so he takes it off and drops it on the couch cushion beside him. Remembers that magazine that's digging into his back and decides to see if there's anything interesting in it while he's taking a moment to rest.

Which, naturally, is when the guy Alfredo sent him to shows up.

Confused muttering just outside the door that Ryan didn't quite close all the way – he'll blame the bloodloss and pain and exhaustion for that bit of sloppiness - 

And then Ryan's staring at a guy – young, startled at finding someone in his apartment unexpectedly and wearing an EMT uniform.

Promising, really, because Ryan was starting to think he'd gotten the address wrong.

“Gunshot wound,” Ryan says, when the guy just keeps staring at him. “Don't think it's still in there.” 

The guy stares at him, eyes dropping to Ryan's leg propped up on his coffee table to drift towards the Vagabond's mask beside him and then back to Ryan.

He doesn't really give much away with the set of his face, no, it's more in the eyes as he straightens out of that little slouch he'd fallen into. Long day maybe - there's something exhausted about it – and scowls at Ryan.

“Yeah?” he says. “Good for you, buddy.” 

Ryan was honestly not expecting that. Has maybe, possibly, gotten used to people knowing who he is, who he works for, so it's actually a little bit insulting that this guy doesn't know who he is - 

Oh, God, that's. 

Christ.

Ryan might as well just ask this guy if he has any idea who Ryan is before asking to speak with his manager with that little line of thought.

But.

“Hey,” Ryan says, still reeling from realization he's coming dangerously close to turning into the criminal world's equivalent of the self-important soccer mom. “What about the Hippocratic Oath?”

You'd think that applies here, right? Do no harm and however else it goes?

But this guy, average height and build and this Jersey accent snorts. Cocks his head as he looks Ryan over.

“I'm not a doctor, you fuck,” he snaps. “So, no.”

There's a stubborn set to his jaw, mulish, and Ryan knows he's not going to get anywhere with him using threats. Might have been able to talk him into lending Ryan a hand if he'd tried using his manners first, but honestly. Ryan's tired and in pain and not at his best.

“Well, shit,” he mutters, and starts to heave himself up to his feet, but - 

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye, looks up in time to see the guy's eyes go wide, stepping forward too fast as his hands come down on Ryan's shoulders and Ryan tenses. Brain not quite up to speed with what his eyes are telling it - 

And then what the guy's saying registers, kicks his brain down from fight or flight to some lower level of alertness.

Ryan snorts when he sees that the guy realizes he just did something real stupid, but isn't backing down. Is muttering to himself as he scoops up the it he dropped and eyes Ryan's leg. 

And Ryan, all right. He makes terrible decisions all the time. Gives in to random impulses and listens to Gavin and Jeremy far too often for his well-being. 

Watches this guy with his gentle, careful touches at odds with the cranky expression on his face and angry muttering as he examines the gunshot wound. Just can't seem to resist the urge to give him shit even though Ryan knows better.

“I thought you didn't take the Hippocratic Oath?” he asks, an little bit of amusement at the way the guy glares up at him.

“You want to hobble on out of here and let that thing get infected, be my guest,” the guy says with a mean little smile. “Otherwise shut up and let me take care of it.”

Ryan laughs, and lets him work in peace.

========

Ryan isn't sure what drives him to keep going back to the guy when shit goes wrong and he ends up bleeding from something a band-aide or two won't fix.

Could be his amazing bedside manner, could be the sweet nothings he snarls at Ryan when he sees him on the other side of the door doing his best to keep from bleeding out where he stands. 

Could be Ryan's some kind of masochist to keep going back time after time to get bitched at for being an idiot who doesn't know how to duck. Who can't fucking stay out of trouble, which given what he does for a living is funny as all hell, but the sentiment is sweet.

Still, Michael's always careful as he stitches Ryan's broken skin together. Always gentle as he digs shrapnel out of Ryan's back or pops his shoulder back in place. Does his best to keep from causing unnecessary pain even as he bitches.

And Ryan, well.

He worries, a little, about this grumpy little EMT who snaps and snarls and still patches Ryan up with no questions asked time after time after time. Remembers how easy it was to break into his apartment the first time, the second, and so on, and takes it upon himself to improve Michael's security as best as he can. (Remembers how it goes when you mix civilians like Michael and people like Ryan and the trouble always nipping at his heels.)

Gets a new lock put on the door and Michael calling him in a fury because he was locked out and the landlord lost the new key. Started hiding knives and other assorted weapons in strategic spots around the Michael's apartment and forgot that maybe that's not a thing normal people did.

(It's fine, though, Michael helpfully reminds him by ranting for at least a good five minutes on the subject. And then yells some more because he doesn't feel he's truly getting his point across to Ryan.)

It seems whatever Ryan tries to do to keep Michael safe in a city like Los Santos isn't really working the way he expects. He keeps trying, though, because it's the least he can do for the person who pieces him back together when things don't go quite to plan on a job or heist or someone from Ryan's past comes calling.

“Fucking Christ, again?”

Ryan shrugs because he doesn't really know how to explain it to Michael other than sometimes shit goes wrong. Things happen, and better that people like him get hurt than Gavin or Jeremy or any of the others.

Michael sighs like he can't be bothered to muster the energy to yell at Ryan right now and honestly, that's fair. It's closing in on three in the morning and Ryan knows he has work in the morning.

“The explosives went off early,” he says, because Michael deserves that much of an explanation for his trouble. 

And Michael, because he's Michael, snorts in annoyance and something else Ryan can't quite place.

“You don't say.”

Ryan shoots him a look over his shoulder, sees the irritated look on his face and fights back a smile.

 _Sighs_ , because he enjoys the way it makes Michael scowl at him a little too much. 

========

Geoff leaves the planning for a heist to Gavin – because clearly Geoff doesn't remember what happened the last time he did that.

The thing isn't that Gavin's not smart or clever enough to come up with a brilliant heist, no. The problem is that he can't stop himself from coming up with crazy schemes and Jeremy, the little shit is no help there. 

Grins and laughs and suggests things like the tiny, evil little goblin he is. Gavin's eyes will light up the way they do when he's hit with an ingenious idea or sees something he wants more than anything and will do whatever it takes to make it happen and Ryan - 

“Where the hell are we even going to get an ambulance?” Ryan asks, studying the whiteboard and the broad strokes of the heist Gavin's scribbled on it. 

Doesn't realize the room's gone quiet until he looks back at Gavin and sees the little shit smirking at him, knowing look in his eye and Ryan's stomach sinks.

Gavin knows about Michael, doesn't he. Likes to “keep his hand in” when it comes to pickpocketing and practices on Ryan from time to time. 

Went and lifted Ryan's phone off him one afternoon and ruined it all by going up to Ryan as he snooped through his phone, asked who “Crinkle Dot” was and why Ryan calls him so much and Ryan had come the closest to killing him in a long, long time.

“Gavin - “

“There's a lovely little spot right here,” he says, and points to a section of the map of Los Santos pinned to the wall, “that we could use to stage a little scene.”

Of course there is.

“It should be a two man job, which means I'll need a volunteer,” Gavin says, tapping a finger against his chin thoughtfully as he lets his eyes wander around the room as though Ryan would let anyone else handle things with Gavin running the show. 

========

If looks could kill, Ryan would be a dead man a hundred times over at the very least.

“I fucking hate you,” Michael says, movements sharp, jerky, as he climbs out of the ambulance and slams the door. “So fucking much.”

Ryan winces, and hopes like hell they return the ambulance in pristine condition.

========

“Oh, dear,” Gavin says, sneaking a glance at Ryan as the ambulance burns merrily away before them.

“Yeah,” Ryan says, wondering if it would be taking things too far to fake his death and have Gavin create a new identity for him to start a new life far, far away from Los Santos and angry EMTs. “That's. I don't think that's going to buff out.”

========

A bonus to wearing a mask is that no one knows what the Vagabond looks like. Have no clue that the poor shaken man who was used as a hostage in a botched bank robbery clutching the blanket the kindly EMT wrapped around him is one of the people they've scouring the city for.

Michael, though.

Smart guy.

Puts two and two together real quick when Ryan thanks him for the blanket. The quiet concern in his eyes morphs into the irritation and something else Ryan can never put a name to he's more familiar with seeing there.

“You son of a bitch,” Michael hisses, eyes cutting towards the police officers milling around for a moment. 

Ryan's all too aware of the photographers snapping pictures beyond the police tape. Vultures looking to use the story of the brave soul thrust into a traumatic situation to draw in readers, viewers, boost their ratings. Something cold in his chest because he knows he won't be able to pull this trick again when his face is going to be all over the news by tonight.

Still.

Worth it, if it got the others out.

Michael's not quite glaring at him because he knows it would draw the wrong kind of attention and if it's one thing he's proven over and over again, it's that he's trustworthy. No matter how angry or irritated he gets at Ryan or the others, he hasn't gone to the cops, hasn't turned on them.

So.

Ryan smiles up Michael, and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking cover while Michael mutters under his breath.

========

Ryan meant to be in and out before Michael noticed, really.

Drop off the soup and make sure he had everything he needed and give him the pace and quiet he needed to get better, but - 

“If you're bleeding somewhere, you might want to see an actual doctor,” Michael says, somehow having managed to sneak up on Ryan even though he looks like death warmed over. “I don't think getting puke in whatever injury you have at the moment would be good for it.”

He's not wrong about that part, but thankfully Ryan isn't bleeding at the moment.

Probably, anyway. It's been an uneventful week without anything in the works for the crew.

“...I'm not?” Ryan says, doing a quick mental check to make sure just in case since Michael sounds so convinced he is bleeding. “I don't think I am, anyway.”

Michael sighs, but somewhere along the way it gets caught up, Has him hunching over from the force of the coughing fit that hits him, and Ryan's reaching out before he knows it. Hands on Michael's shoulder, his hand and leading him to the couch. Presses the pal of his hand against Michael's forehead and breathes a little easier. Michael's running a fever, yes, but nothing alarming to it just yet. 

“The fuck are you doing?” Michael asks, slight wheeze to it as he shakes off Ryan's hand.

And Ryan - 

He doesn't know, actually.

Shouldn't be here, hovering over Michael. This civilian who by all rights shouldn't be as involved in his – their – world as he is. Shouldn't be this at ease with having the goddamned Vagabond standing over him like an idiot, annoyed scowl on his face the longer Ryan takes to offer up an answer.

Because Ryan knows what happens when you bring people like him into things. Knows what a bad idea it is, how easy it is for their enemies to look at him and see nothing but leverage, an advantage. Knows how fast it can all go wrong, and if he were a better person he'd have stopped coming here a long time ago. (He's not, though, is he. Always so goddamned selfish, ruins things, people, no matter how what he does.)

“You're sick,” Ryan says, all the words he _should_ say caught in his throat.

“Thanks for being a judgmental asshole,” Michael says. “Also, fuck you.”

“Okay, that's. Not what I mean, but okay,” Ryan says, because that's so Michael it hurts, and Ryan ends up staring at him because what was he expecting, really?

Michael rolls his eyes and glances towards the kitchen.

“Think you can grab that Gatorade out of the fridge for me?” 

There's something to it as though he honestly doubts Ryan is capable of such a complicated task, that kicks Ryan into motion. Has him making a bit of a detour for the soup he brought.

“Again,” Michael says, squinting up at him. “The fuck are you doing?”

And, look.

Ryan's not exactly a gourmet chef, all right, but chicken noodle soup is nice and simple. Even he can manage it, although you wouldn't think it from the ribbing the others had given him. (The way Michael's looking at him right now.)

“You're sick,” Ryan says again, and places the bowl of soup and bottle of Gatorade down on Michael's coffee table and takes a step back because Michael's a stubborn bastard.

Touchy over the oddest things sometimes, and this could be one of them, so. Space, Ryan's giving him some.

And then - 

"Is it poisoned?” Michael asks, prodding the bowl with a finger, eyebrow raised as he looks up at Ryan. “Dare I hope it will grant me the sweet, blessed release of death?”

That. 

Maybe Ryan misjudged earlier and Michael's fever is worse than he thought? 

“Not this time, but I've got some stuff back home that might do the trick if you'd like,” Ryan offers, although really. It's been a long time since he's used the stuff. Probably a good idea to check on them when he gets back to the penthouse.

Michael snorts, corners of his mouth pulling up into a faint smile. 

“Save that plan for later,” he says, and tries the soup like he actually does think it's poisoned, tiny little taste.

And fine, Ryan will humor Michael, act like he's actually taking poising Michael into consideration because why not, really?

“Thanks, asshole,” Michael grumbles, color rising in his cheeks that aren't due to the miserable cold he's suffering from and that - 

Ryan laughs, can't not at the look on Michael's face.

And then Michael's just _looking_ at Ryan, and Ryan looks right back because what else is there for him to do?

“You sure you're not bleeding somewhere?”

Suspicious, like he think Ryan's buttering him up so he'll be more amenable to stitching up sound injury Ryan's hiding later. Like he thinks Ryan's _that_ injury prone.

“What? _No_ ,” Ryan says, indignant because _no_ , and maybe Michael could stop looking so damned amused?

But no, of course not because this is _Michael_.

Almost as bad as Gavin or Jeremy in his own way as he leans back, hands resting on his stomach as Ryan scowls at him.

So damned amused at having Ryan off-balance, like it's the best damned thing in the world to him.

Michael, grumpy and surly and this anger to him that burns hot and fast – and kind under it all. Good heart to him and the kind of backbone that keeps him standing tall and moving forward in a city like Los Santos. 

Fearless, really, and that's - 

Ryan sighs, knows he's just digging himself in deeper here with the way Michael's grinning at him, and all too helpless against it. Wonders why he isn't fighting harder, but then Michael laughs, and that's - 

Well, that's his answer really, isn't it? Ryan's always been selfish, and this time looks to be no different. 

(God help them both.)


End file.
